The Cabinet of Curiosities

by Douglas Preston

  Smithback checked his watch. Almost one o’clock.

  Oh, God. Such a brilliant bit of detective work and all he’d really got was the damn address. Well, it was a matter of an hour or two to simply go check and see if the house was still standing.

  Smithback stuffed the papers back into his pocket and strolled to Central Park West. There wasn’t much point in flagging down a cab—they’d refuse to take him that far uptown, and once there he’d never find a cab to take him home again. Even though it was broad daylight, he had no intention of doing any wandering around in that dangerous neighborhood.

  The best thing to do might be to rent a car. The Times had a special arrangement with Hertz, and there was a branch not far away on Columbus. Now that he thought about it, if the house did still exist, he’d probably want to check inside, talk to current tenants, find out if anything unusual had come to light during renovations, that sort of thing.

  It might be dark before he was through.

  That did it: he was renting a car.

  Forty-five minutes later, he was heading up Central Park West in a silver Taurus. His spirits had risen once again. This still could be a big story. After he’d checked on the house, he could do a search of the New York Public Library, see if he could turn up any published articles of Leng. Maybe he could even search the police files to see if anything unusual had happened in the vicinity of Leng’s house during the time he was alive.

  There were still a lot of strong leads to follow up here. Leng could be as big as Jack the Ripper. The similarities were there. All it took was a journalist to make it come alive.

  With enough information, this could be his next book.

  He, Smithback, would be a shoo-in for that Pulitzer which always seemed to elude him. And even more important—well, just as important, at least—he’d have a chance to square himself with Nora. This would save her and Pendergast a lot of time wading through city deeds. And it would please Pendergast, who he sensed was a silent ally. Yes: all in all, this was going to work out well.

  Reaching the end of the park, he headed west on Cathedral Parkway, then turned north onto Riverside Drive. As he passed 125th Street he slowed, scanning the addresses of the broken buildings. Six Hundred Seventy. Seven Hundred One. Another ten blocks went by. As he continued north, he slowed still further, holding his breath in anticipation.

  And then his eye alighted on 891 Riverside Drive.

  The house was still standing. He couldn’t believe his luck: Leng’s own house.

  He gave it a long, searching look as he passed by, then turned right at the next street, 138th, and circled the block, heart beating fast.

  Eight Ninety-one was an old Beaux Arts mansion that took up the entire block, sporting a pillared entryway, festooned with Baroque Revival decorations. There was even a damn coat of arms carved above the door. It was set back from the street by a small service road, forming a triangle-shaped island that adjoined Riverside Drive. There were no rows of buzzers beside the door, and the first-floor windows had been securely boarded up and covered with tin. The place, it seemed, had never been broken into apartments. Like so many old mansions along the Drive, it had simply been abandoned years before—too expensive to maintain, too expensive to tear down, too expensive to revamp. Almost all such buildings had reverted to the city for unpaid taxes. The city simply boarded them up and warehoused them.

  He leaned over the passenger seat, squinting for a better look. The upper-story windows were not boarded up, and none of the panes appeared to be broken. It was perfect. It looked just like the house of a mass murderer. Front page photo, here we come. Smithback could just see his story generating a police search of the place, the discovery of more bodies. This was getting better and better.

  So how best to proceed? A little peek through a window might be in order—provided he could find a place to park.

  Pulling away from the curb, he circled the block again, then drove down Riverside, looking for a parking spot. Considering how poor the neighborhood was, there were a remarkable number of cars: junkers, aging Eldorado pimpmobiles, fancy SUVs with huge speakers tilting up from their rear beds. It was six or seven blocks before he finally found a semilegal parking spot on a side street off Riverside. He should have hired a livery driver, damn it, and had him wait while he inspected the house. Now, he had to walk nine blocks through Harlem. Just what he had tried to avoid.

  Nudging the rental car into the space, he glanced carefully around. Then he got out of the car, locked it, and—quickly, but not so quickly as to attract attention—walked back up to 137th Street.

  When he reached the corner, he slowed, sauntering down the block until he came to the porte-cochère entrance. Here, he paused to look at the house more carefully, trying to look as casual as possible.

  It had once been very grand: a four-story structure of marble and brick, with a slate mansard roof, oval windows, towers, and a widow’s walk. The facade was encrusted with carved limestone details set into brick. The streetfront was surrounded by a tall spiked iron fence, broken and rusty. The yard was filled with weeds and trash, along with a riot of sumac and ailanthus bushes and a pair of dead oaks. Its dark-browed upper-story windows looked out over the Hudson and the North River Water Pollution Control Plant.

  Smithback shivered, glanced around one more time, then crossed the service road and started down the carriageway. Gang graffiti was sprayed all over the once elegant marble and brick. Windblown trash had accumulated several feet deep in the recesses. But in the rear of the carriage drive, he could see a stout door made of oak. It, too, had been sprayed with graffiti, but still looked operable. It had neither window nor peephole.

  Smithback slipped farther down the carriageway, keeping close to the outside wall. The place stank of urine and feces. Someone had dropped a load of used diapers beside the door, and a pile of garbage bags lay in a corner, torn apart by dogs and rats. As if on cue, an enormously fat rat waddled out of the trash, dragging its belly, looked insolently at him, then disappeared back into the garbage.

  He noticed two small, oval windows, set on each side of the door. Both were covered with tin, but there might be a way to pry one loose. Advancing, Smithback carefully pressed his hand against the closest, testing it. It was solid as a rock: no cracks, no way to see in. The other was just as carefully covered. He inspected the seams, looking for holes, but there were none. He laid a hand on the oaken door: again, it felt totally solid. This house was locked up tight, nigh impregnable. Perhaps it had been locked up since the time of Leng’s death. There might well be personal items inside. Once again, Smithback wondered if the remains of victims might also be there.

  Once the police got their hands on the place, he’d lose his chance to learn anything more.

  It would be very interesting to see inside.

  He looked up, his eye following the lines of the house. He’d had some rock climbing experience, gained from a trip to the canyon country of Utah. The trip where he’d met Nora. He stepped away, studying the facade. There were lots of cornices and carvings that would make good handholds. Here, away from the street, he wasn’t as likely to be noticed. With a little luck, he might be able to climb to one of the second-story windows. Just for a look.

  He glanced back down the carriageway. The street was deserted, the house deathly silent.

  Smithback rubbed his hands together, smoothed his cowlick. And then he set his left wing tip into a gap in the lower course of masonry and began to climb.

  TWO

  CAPTAIN CUSTER CHECKED the clock on the wall of his office. It was nearly noon. He felt a growl in his capacious stomach and wished, for at least the twentieth time, that noon would hurry up and come so he could head out to Dilly’s Deli, purchase a double corned beef and swiss on rye with extra mayo, and place the monstrous sandwich in his mouth. He always got hungry when he was nervous, and today he was very, very nervous. It had been barely forty-eight hours since he’d been put in charge of the Surgeon case, but already
he was getting impatient calls. The mayor had called, the commissioner had called. The three murders had the entire city close to panicking. And yet he had nothing to report. The breathing space he’d bought himself with that article on the old bones was just about used up. The fifty detectives working the case were desperately following up leads, for all the good it did them. But to where? Nowhere. He snorted, shook his head. Incompetent ass-wipes.

  His stomach growled again, louder this time. Pressure and agitation encircled him like a damp bathhouse towel. If this was what it felt like to be in charge of a big case, he wasn’t sure he liked it.

  He glanced at the clock again. Five more minutes. Not going to lunch before noon was a matter of discipline with him. As a police officer, he knew discipline was key. That was what it was all about. He couldn’t let the pressure get to him.

  He remembered how the commissioner had stared sidelong at him, back in that little hovel on Doyers Street when he’d assigned him the investigation. Rocker hadn’t seemed exactly confident in his abilities. Custer remembered, all too clearly, his words of advice: I’d suggest you get to work on this new case of yours. Get right to work. Catch that killer. You don’t want another, fresher stiff turning up on your watch—do you?

  The minute hand moved another notch.

  Maybe more manpower is the answer, he thought. He should put another dozen detectives on that murder in the Museum Archives. That was the most recent murder, that’s where the freshest clues would be. That curator who’d found the corpse—the frosty bitch, what’s her name—had been pretty closemouthed. If he could—

  And then, just as the second hand swept toward noon, he had the revelation.

  The Museum Archives. The Museum curator…

  It was so overwhelming, so blinding, that it temporarily drove all thoughts of corned beef from his head.

  The Museum. The Museum was the center around which everything revolved.

  The third murder, the brutal operation? It took place in the Museum.

  That archaeologist, Nora Kelly? Worked for the Museum.

  The incriminating letter that reporter, Smithbank or whatever, had leaked? The letter that started the whole thing? Found in the Museum’s Archives.

  That creepy old guy, Collopy, who’d authorized the removal of the letter? Director of the Museum.

  Fairhaven? On the Museum’s board.

  The nineteenth-century killer? Connected to the Museum.

  And the archivist himself, Puck, had been murdered. Why? Because he had discovered something. Something in the Archives.

  Custer’s mind, unusually clear, began racing over the possibilities, the myriad combinations and permutations. What was needed was strong, decisive action. Whatever it was Puck had found, he would find, too. And that would be key to the murderer.

  There was no time to lose, not one minute.

  He stood up and punched the intercom. “Noyes? Get in here. Right away.”

  The man was in the doorway even before Custer’s finger was off the button.

  “I want the top ten detectives assigned to the Surgeon case over here for a confidential briefing in my office. Half an hour.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Noyes raised a quizzical, but appropriately obsequious, eyebrow.

  “I’ve got it. Noyes, I’ve figured it out.”

  Noyes ceased his gum chewing. “Sir?”

  “The key to the Surgeon killings is in the Museum. It’s there, in the Archives. God knows, maybe even the murderer himself is in there, on the Museum’s staff.” Custer grabbed his jacket. “We’re going in there hard and fast, Noyes. They won’t even know what hit them.”

  THREE

  USING CORNICES AND escutcheons as hand- and footholds, Smithback slowly pulled his way up the wall toward the stone embrasure of a second-story window. It had been harder than he expected, and he’d managed to scrape a cheek and mash a finger in the process. And, of course, he was ruining a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of handmade Italian shoes. Maybe the Times would pay. Spreadeagled against the side of the house, he felt ridiculously exposed. There must be an easier way to win a Pulitzer, he thought. He grabbed for the window ledge, pulled himself upward with a grunt of effort. Gaining the wide ledge, he remained there a moment, catching his breath, looking around. The street was still quiet. Nobody seemed to have noticed anything. He turned his attention back to the rippled glass of the window.

  The room beyond seemed utterly empty and dark. Dust motes hung in the anemic shafts of light that slanted inward. He thought he could make out a closed door in the far wall. But there was nothing to give him any indication of what lay beyond, in the rest of the house.

  If he wanted to learn anything more, he’d have to get inside.

  What could the harm be? The house had clearly been deserted for decades. It was probably city property now, public property. He’d come this far, done this much. If he left now, he’d have to start all over again. The image of his editor’s face, shaking a fistful of copy, eyes popping with anger, filled his mind. If he was going to charge them for the shoes, he better have something to show for it.

  He tried the window, and, as expected, found it locked—or, perhaps, frozen shut with age. He experienced a moment of indecision, looked around again. The thought of clambering back down the wall was even less pleasant than climbing up had been. What he could see from the window told him nothing. He had to find a way in—just for the briefest look. He sure as hell couldn’t stay on the ledge forever. If anyone happened by and saw him…

  And then he spotted the cop car a few blocks south on Riverside Drive, cruising slowly north. It would not be good at all if they caught sight of him up here—and he had no way to get down in time.

  Quickly, he pulled off his jacket, stuffed it into a ball, and placed it against one of the lowest of the large panes. Using his shoulder, he pressed until it gave with a sharp crack. He pried out the pieces of glass, laid them on the ledge, and crawled through.

  Inside the room, he stood up and peered through the window. All was calm; his entry hadn’t been noticed. Then he turned around, listening intently. Silence. He sniffed the air. It smelled, not unpleasantly, of old wallpaper and dust—it was not the stale air he’d been expecting. He took a few deep breaths.

  Think of the story. Think of the Pulitzer. Think of Nora. He would do a quick reconnaissance and then get out.

  He waited, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. There was a shelf in the back, and a single book lay on it. Smithback walked over and picked it up. It was an old nineteenth-century treatise titled Mollusca, with a gold engraving of a conch on the cover. Smithback felt a slight quickening of his heart: a natural history book. He opened it, hoping to find a bookplate reading Ex Libris Enoch Leng. But there was nothing. He flipped the pages, looking for notes, then put the book back.

  Nothing else for it: time to explore the house.

  He carefully removed his shoes, placed them by the window, and proceeded in stockinged feet. With careful steps he made his way to the closed door. The floor creaked, and he stopped. But the profound silence remained. It was unlikely that anyone would be in the house—it looked like even the junkies and bums had been successfully kept out—but caution would be wise nonetheless.

  He placed his hand on the doorknob, turned it ever so slowly, eased the door open an inch. He peered through the crack. Blackness. He pushed it wider, allowing the dim afternoon light from the window behind him to spill into the hallway. He saw that it was very long, quite grand, with flocked wallpaper in a heavy green design. On the walls, in gilded alcoves, were paintings draped with white sheets. The sheets clung to the heavy frames. At the far end of the hall, a broad set of marble stairs swept downward, disappearing into a pool of deeper darkness. At the top of the stairs stood something—a statue, perhaps?—draped in yet another white sheet.

  Smithback held his breath. It really did look as if the house had been shut up and deserted since Leng’s death. It was fantastic. Could all this stu
ff be Leng’s?

  He ventured a few steps down the hall. As he did so, the smell of mold and dust became suffused with something less pleasant: something organic, sweet, decayed. It was as if the rotten old heart of the house had finally died.

  Perhaps his suspicions were right, and Leng had entombed the bodies of his victims behind the heavy Victorian wallpaper.

  He paused, an arm’s length from one of the paintings. Curious, he reached out, took the corner of the white sheet, and lifted. The rotting sheet fell away in a cloud of dust and tatters, and he stepped back, momentarily startled. A dark painting stood revealed. Smithback peered closer. It depicted a pack of wolves ripping apart a deer in a deep wood. It was ghoulish in its anatomical detail, but beautifully executed nevertheless, and no doubt worth a fortune. Curiosity aroused, Smithback stepped to the next alcove and plucked at the sheet, which also turned to powder at his touch. This painting showed a whale hunt—a great sperm whale, draped with harpoon lines, thrashing about in its death throes, a huge jet of bright arterial blood rising from its spouter, while its flukes dashed a boatful of harpooners into the sea.

  Smithback could hardly believe his luck. He had struck paydirt. But then, it wasn’t luck: it was the result of hard work and careful research. Even Pendergast hadn’t yet figured out where Leng lived. This would redeem his job at the Times, maybe even redeem his relationship with Nora. Because he was sure that—whatever information about Leng Nora and Pendergast were looking for—it was here.

  Smithback waited, listening intently, but there were no sounds from below. He moved down the carpeted hallway in slow, small, noiseless steps. Reaching the covered statue at the top of the banister, he reached up and grasped at the sheet. As rotten as the others, it fell apart, dropping to the ground in a dissolving heap. A cloud of dust, dry rot, and mold billowed up into the air.